


sorry about the blood in your mouth (i wish it was mine)

by westminster



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, M/M, but with capital F Feelings, minor tw for blood/violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: "You're gonna have to patch me up, kid."Freddy already worked that one out. The prospect of being that close to White, White's breath on his neck, Freddy's fingers gliding over his skin. He's had to stitch up other cops a couple of times before, but it never felt this intimate. Being that close to White feels almost perverse, something dark and twisted and unspoken of.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 70





	sorry about the blood in your mouth (i wish it was mine)

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from richard siken's poem, little beast. enjoy!

Freddy's been awake for a while now. He never was an early riser, but awakening to another man's body wrapped around his own startles him. He sits up; fully alert. Blinking himself into consciousness, Freddy glances down at Larry's sleeping form, undisturbed by his movement. Freddy's not ready to get up yet: instead he slots a Chesterfield between his teeth and puffs away as Larry snores. The sun rose some time ago, bright light slicing through the edges of the curtains, summer heat heavy on his skin. He hates moments like this, when it's just him and his thoughts, Larry's jokes not there to cut through his guilt. He turns over slightly, so he's facing Larry. Larry's eyes are closed and his eyebrows are furrowed, he's tightly wound even in his sleep and Freddy threads a hand through the hair at the nape of Larry's neck, hoping the action will calm him. Freddy traces Larry's features with a fingertip, ghosting over thin, muscular lips, bold nose, over blemishes and stubble. He feels an overwhelming sense of luck, realising how different things could've been.  
  
See, that's the funny thing - Freddy never wanted to be paired off with Larry. Hell, he was angling for anybody _but_ Larry. He could picture the first time the group met too vividly, the restaurant hazy with smoke, Freddy hunched down, observing the group under hooded lids. He'd already used his commode story, shot his shot too early to impress Joe, so he mostly listened, laughed politely, swore under his breath at the appropriate points. It gave him time to judge the room, glancing at each man in turn, experiencing a jolt, like cold water being poured over him, every time one of them looked back.  
  
He'd selected Brown as an ideal partner from the start: Freddy might look like a kid, but Brown sure behaved like one. If anyone was gonna slip up, if Freddy could catch anyone out, it'd be him. And the guy could recite Madonna's entire discography, he wouldn't be too ashamed of his Silver Surfer posters next to a guy like that. That's why he tried to make a bit of conversation with him, laughed a little too hard at his stupid fuckin' jokes. God, Freddy even pretended to think _Islands In the Stream_ is Dolly's best song, when it's clearly _Dumb Blonde_. He's all chummy with Brown by the end of it, their relationship cemented when Brown claps him on the back and bellows, "Hey, you got good taste for a kid." Freddy was pretty smarmy, sees Joe looking at him, then at Brown, thinks he's sealed the deal.   
  
That's why it takes him a minute to pick his jaw up from the ground when the phone call comes. White'll be at his in ten. Freddy thinks he's fucked. White was the last person he wanted, the only guy with the balls to give Joe shit was obviously tight with the guy. Him and Joe went way back, White had been around the block a few times, no way he'd be loose-lipped enough to give Holdaway any information to work with. Freddy drags his feet to the car, throws himself in and huffs.  
  
"Trouble with the wife?" White says, doesn't even look at Freddy as he pulls out into the road.  
  
"Huh?" Freddy replies, then remembers the wedding band on his finger. He looks down at it. It feels like the metal is burning into his flesh, the lie branded on his skin. He looks up. "Yeah, I can never fuckin' catch a break."  
  
White rolls down his window, turns up the volume on the radio and sticks a cigarette in his mouth.   
  
"Come on, kid," he says, grinning as he whizzes past a set of traffic lights, a second after they've turned red. "We'll have some fun."  
  
***  
  
Freddy's on the sofa, in his pj's, arm-deep in a box of cereal when he hears White scream his name. Well, he screams _Orange_ , and it takes a second to remind himself that's his name now. He's up like a shot, bumps his knee on the coffee table. He swears under his breath as he fiddles with the locks, three different kinds, the only renovation to this dog-shit place the LAPD approved. Just when he thinks his palms are too sweaty to jiggle it open, ready to break the door down with his bare fists if necessary, the metal slides under his touch, right into place. Freddy sticks his head out and spots White instantly. At first glance, White looks completely normal. Freddy looks a little closer, noticing the beads of sweat on White's forehead, too much to be put down to the weather. White's also got an arm coiled around his stomach, left hand pressed firmly on his right hip. Freddy runs to him, puts his arms around White and pulls him up. White grits his teeth and lets the kid guide him through the door, discarding him on the sofa. White lands with a gasp, lies there with his mouth wide open, eyes to the ceiling. Freddy winces, regrets not putting the guy down more gently, puts his hand over his eyes in shame.   
  
It's only then he notices the blood on his fingers. Bright red, sticky, only a trace but still there.  
  
"You're hurt," Freddy says. He knows it's a pretty stupid comment to make as soon as it leaves his lips, but his brain refuses to co-operate with him right now.  
  
He knows it's bad when White doesn't say something dripping in sarcasm, misses an opportunity to make Freddy blush.  
  
"It's not bad," White says after a few seconds.  
  
Freddy can only stare back, numb.   
  
"Ran into an old er-acquaintance of mine. Screwed him over a lifetime ago and he never forgot it. I was on the corner of Brewster and Church street - I could only think of your place."  
  
White lifts his shirt, revealing a small incision, a switch-blade, Freddy assumes, but he's distracted by the taut muscle that encroaches it.  
  
"You're gonna have to patch me up, kid."  
  
Freddy already worked that one out. The prospect of being that close to White, White's breath on his neck, Freddy's fingers gliding over his skin. He's had to stitch up other cops a couple of times before, but it never felt this intimate. Being that close to White feels almost perverse, something dark and twisted and unspoken of.  
  
But White's looking up at him, like Freddy's his saviour, and how can Freddy move away from that? He goes to the bathroom, reluctant to take his eyes from White, returns with a first-aid kit.  
  
Freddy kneels on the floor, knees in front of White, feeling like he's at Mass. But there’s no God here, White's no priest and Freddy ain't confessing anything. That's what he tells himself, at least. Freddy reaches for White and stops, fingers hovering over the hem his shirt. He looks up, White nods slightly. _Permission granted._ Freddy lifts the polo shirt, looser than White normally wears. Freddy tries to move it away from the injury but it refuses to co-operate: the fabric bunches up, falls back down. He'll have to take the shirt off. He pulls the shirt up in a rough movement, and White works with him, shucks it from his arms until it falls to the floor. And there is White, shirtless and a little bloody on Freddy's sofa, stretched out like a naked gal in a painting.   
  
_Eyes down. Don't look. Don't betray yourself, your thoughts, your sins._ Freddy focuses on the task, keeps his mouth straight - clinical, detached - he knows what's expected of him. He upends a tube of antiseptic onto a cotton wad, lets the liquid drip onto his fingers before moving to over to White. He doesn't want to touch White, worried he'll get carried away, but White would know, know there's something wrong with Freddy. Precise. Unfaltering. Like any friend would do. Except they're not friends, _are they?_ Colleagues, business associates, is that what they are? No - White's executioner, that's what Freddy is. Or at least, supposed to be. Freddy's fingers prod White's hip. He keeps his head down. From this angle, it could be anyone's body, anyone's flesh moulding under his touch. He's shaking as he dabs the antiseptic onto the injured area. If White feels the sting he doesn't show it, remains completely still as Freddy moves the cotton around the skin. Freddy discards the bloody wad on the coffee table, throws it into a take-out box that's nearly empty. He assumes White's raising an eyebrow at him for bloodying the remnants of yesterday's dinner, though he doesn't look up. He occupies himself, giving the skin a quick wipe with topical anaesthetic before ripping open a suture pack, poising the needle and thread.   
  
White is stoic, doesn't make a sound as the needle pierces his flesh. The only indication of pain is the brief hitch in White's breath at the cool touch of the metal. Freddy's eyebrows wrinkle, his stare so fierce he has to blink back tears as he repeats the motion. He ties off the thread, and then it's all over, he managed to get through it. Allowing the corners of his mouth to twitch upwards, Freddy feels a little proud of his restraint. He leans backwards, to admire his handiwork, and catches White looking at him. Freddy's hand is still on White's chest, moving with the rhythm of White's breaths and White is gazing down at Freddy, eyes dark, almost black. There's an emotion on his face that Freddy can't quite place, his stare is almost angry but his mouth - open, relaxed - says otherwise. Freddy can see the pink of his tongue. He gulps. White follows the movement of his Adam's apple in silence, and the moment stretches out like taffy.   
  
White moves, eventually. After a few seconds, maybe. Freddy doesn't count. His hand hovers over Freddy's face, thumb tracing Freddy's flushed cheeks, stopping at the edge of his mouth. Close, not quite. Freddy wonders if this is a test. Does he take that thumb in his mouth? He doesn't have to deliberate for too long, because White speaks.  
  
"Aren't you gonna kiss it better, buddy?"  
  
Freddy wonders if White's making fun of him. The difference between teasing and flirting is a fine line to toe when you're a guy with another guy bleeding on his couch. _Don't fall off._ He says the word in his mind, _buddy_ , is that an invitation to touch him or to laugh with him? Freddy doesn't think he could pass up an opportunity like this. He looks up at White under hooded lashes and brings his mouth to the skin just under the cut. If White punches his lights out and this is the last thing he ever sees, it will have been worth it. His lips are parted and he moves them down from White's side to his hip, leaning forward to press his forehead gently into White's chest, waiting to be laughed at, spat at. It never comes.   
  
Freddy looks up, and White, White looks mesmerised. Freddy's never had that effect on another person, thought he never would. White cups his chin, cradles it with a softness that could make Freddy weep.  
  
"Pretty boy," he says, "oh, you pretty boy."   
  
Something inside Freddy snaps. He reaches up, brings his lips to other man's, and all he can feel is desire, red hot, searing through his veins. He kisses like he has minutes left to live, like White will come to his senses at any second and throw him off. Freddy needs to get what he can, now. So he bites, tugs, nibbles at the other man's lips: he's not playing nice today. White gives back, kisses hard enough to bruise and tightens his grip on Freddy's shirt. Freddy climbs up, onto White, straddles him as he grapples for as much purchase as he can. Then, White pushes him away - inevitable, Freddy thinks, getting ready to lick his wounds. But White is grinning down at him, all lop-sided and warm and genuine.   
  
"Maybe watch the stab wound, huh?"  
  
Freddy looks down. His knee is pressed into White's side, putting pressure against the gauze. His cheeks turn a shade of pink.  
  
"Shit, shit, shit, man," he says, scrambling off the couch, trying to ensure his long limbs don't cause any further damage, "Shit, I'm sorry, I-"  
  
"It's okay, kid. These activities might be, uh, better suited to a bed, what d'ya say?"  
  
That implicit promise of more makes Freddy's knees go weak, _more_ , he never thought White'd want more. So he leads White to his bedroom, his bare feet padding against the wood floor. It's a shabby thing - there's a hole in the wall adjacent to the bed and the flowers on the windowsill have been dead for a while. But the mattress is good, sturdy, moulds under Freddy's body. Neither of them are focusing on the room, though. Freddy lingers in front of the window: the curtains are half-drawn, the sun hits Freddy at an odd angle, beams of light dancing across his face. White cradles his cheek, lifts Freddy's chin to observe his soft features in the sunlight. White brings his lips to Freddy's. This kiss is much sweeter than the first. White leads it, stroking Freddy's face as gently as he can. He pulls away after a few seconds, and just stares, takes in Freddy's features for a bit. The way he's looking makes Freddy's heart soar, Freddy's never been something to admire before, never been more than part of the scenery.   
  
"Larry. My name is Larry."  
  
That catches Freddy off-guard, the revelation. It's a gift and Freddy knows it, treasures it, lets it play on his lips carefully. _Larry_. He can feel his tongue in his mouth. _Larry_. Yes, he looks like a Larry, not a White. Not just a gift but a trade-off too, White looking down, expectedly. Or hopefully. Freddy can't tell. _Tommy_ , he's about to say. Stops himself. Larry is risking everything in this moment. Freddy visualises Larry's cut of the diamonds. All that money - the security it would give - potentially gone because Larry trusts him, likes him, maybe more, sometime soon. He knows what Larry deserves, his name, his real name, not another shallow mask. He isn't cruel enough to deny him that.  
  
"Freddy," he says and knows he's in way over his head.  
  
They kiss again, Larry nudging Freddy slowly until the backs of Freddy's legs hit the bed. Larry pulls Freddy's shirt over his head, throws it in a dark corner of the room. Larry checks him out, eyes traversing over the expanse of pale skin, swearing under his breath.   
  
"On the bed. Now." Larry snaps, giving Freddy's ear a quick bite before backing away, so that Freddy has enough room to move. He scrambles onto the bed. There's no grace, no decorum - just Freddy, with his bony limbs that jut out at awkward angles, half-hard dick covered by Star Wars pyjamas. But Larry's looking down at him like he's a thing of beauty, and it makes Freddy's head spin. He keeps his eyes glued on Larry as Larry undoes his belt, takes off his shoes and socks, shucks out of his jeans. Clad only in a pair of black shorts, he climbs on top of Freddy, bringing his lips to Freddy's neck. Larry kisses and licks a trail down to Freddy's nipples, takes one in his mouth and tugs lightly. Freddy bites back a whimper, bucking his hips against Larry's body.  
  
"Touch me, Larry," Freddy chokes, head fuzzy with desire.  
  
And Larry complies, tugs at Freddy's pants until they're gathered around his ankles. His touch is gentle, and Freddy is so desperate. Freddy pushes into his touch, pulls Larry down into another searing kiss. Freddy's hands are in Larry's hair, gel in his fingers: he likes it when it's mussed. Freddy kisses Larry, holds him, moans into his mouth. He looks at Larry and imagines them as long-time friends finally succumbing to their mutual attraction, or strangers who catch each other's gaze in a bar, anything to keep the guilt at bay. Anything to distract from the police badge that rests in his bedside drawer. But Larry's strong, handsome, and he lets himself get lost in Larry's touch. Larry fucks him with capable hands, swallowing each whimper from Freddy.  
  
"Feel so good, Larry," Freddy pants, "Don't stop, God, don't, don't-"  
  
Larry chuckles into Freddy's skin, picking up his pace. It makes Freddy moan even louder. Freddy throws his head back against the pillow, baring his pale, white throat to the light. Larry can't help himself:  
  
"You're so beautiful, baby - so pretty, all mine - are you gonna come for me, are you gonna come for me, baby?"  
  
Larry's words are broken, thrown off-kilter by the sight of Freddy, clearly on edge, precome dripping against Larry's thick fingers. Freddy's squirming incessantly, too far gone to form anything coherent. Larry coaxes him to the edge, calling him things like _good boy, sweet boy, honey_ until Freddy gasps, spilling his seed over his stomach. Larry carries on stroking him, planting chaste little kisses onto Freddy's skin until he stops writhing. Freddy goes still and Larry lies down next to him, pants filling the room.   
  
When Freddy gets his breath back, there's no stopping him. He moves over Larry's form - avoiding the wound, of course - touching and kissing incessantly. He kisses a path down Larry's body, stops to trace small, faded tattoos with his fingers. When he reaches the waistband of Larry's underwear he takes the fabric in his mouth, clutches it between his teeth and looks up at Larry. Larry shakes his head a little, eyes blown wide, like he can't quite believe the man on top of him is real. He drags his fingers across Freddy's temple, just to check he didn't make this boy up inside of his head. But his fingers collide with soft skin, hot and wet under his touch.  
  
"Don't feel like you have to do anything-"  
  
Freddy yanks the fabric down with his teeth, freeing Larry's erection.  
  
"I want to," Freddy says, kissing the top of Larry's thighs, "Want you so bad, Larry."  
  
Freddy isn't a tease. He takes all of Larry's cock in one go, tries to ignore his gag reflex as Larry's groans fill the room. Freddy isn't experienced; he's sloppy and clumsy around Larry, but the heat of Freddy's mouth still feels divine to the other man. Freddy's hair has fallen in front of his eyes, and Larry sweeps it away, tucks it behind his ear. Freddy is so eager, sucks and licks like Larry's cock in his mouth is a reward, and it's that - Freddy's willingness, moaning as takes his length in his mouth once more, that tips Larry over the edge. He tugs on Freddy's hair - a warning - but it doesn't dissuade Freddy, he takes as much of Larry as he possibly can, hollowing his cheeks and sucking, and that's enough - Larry spills into Freddy's mouth, broken shouts of Freddy on his lips.   
  
They pass out soon after that, Freddy wrapped tight to Larry's side, Larry's mouth resting on Freddy's neck.  
  
***  
  
Freddy takes the Chesterfield out of his mouth and sighs. White- no, Larry has begun to stir, will wake at any moment. Freddy doesn't want to face him. That luck he felt whilst taking in Larry's sleeping form, seems juvenile a moment later. He wishes he never met Larry. He wishes he'd been going over the plan for the heist with Brown a couple nights ago, bored out of his mind but even more determined to get these guys. His heart is thumping loud now, not loud enough to drown out his guilt.   
  
Larry opens his eyes. The first thing he does is grin at Freddy, reaching a hand up to cradle the other man's cheek. Freddy relaxes into Larry's touch. He thinks he might cry. He takes a deep breath and spreads his hand over Larry's, threads his fingers through the other man's. Who knows what'll happen today, or tomorrow. But this moment, this morning? This morning Freddy can pretend that things last.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
